The Roman Inquisition
by Marz1
Summary: "Two serial killers, John. Two killers who have successfully faked their deaths multiple times! It's Christmas! It's double Christmas!"
1. Chapter 1

Notes and Spoiler Warning: This story is set in season 7 of Supernatural, just after to episode 7:15, Repo-Man, and in the theoretical season 3 of Sherlock, which at this time has not yet aired. Rated T for violence and language.

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I don't make any money off of this.

The Roman Inquisition

My Marz1

Chapter 1

Catching Sam Winchester should have been a challenge. According to police records and video surveillance, his quarry was in near perfect physical condition, intellectually brilliant and highly trained in combat and espionage. The reports said he was also hansom, charming, amoral, and unpredictably violent. The consultant knew police reports were usually wishful thinking and always biased, but rarely were they this far from the truth.

They did get a few of the basic characteristics right. His target was physically imposing, well over six feet tall with broad shoulders and a thick neck. The consultant could tell Winchester was armed from the bulges under his jacket and the way his fingers unconsciously brushed at various pockets. He did have a strong jaw line, an expressive brow, clear skin, and unusually exact facial symmetry; attractive by the standards of western culture.

His target was in a dank alley having an argument with a compost bin, and based on the half of the conversation he could overhear, losing.

The consultant could not fathom how the Roman Enterprises could be so vexed by so damaged and adversary. Giving up on the bin, Sam Winchester stumbled across the alley, waving his hands before him as if he were blind. The consultant followed along a few steps behind.

When Winchester's flaying arms encountered nothing he took a few shuffling steps forward. He paused to dig his fingers into a scar on the palm of his other hand. Apparently the self injury did not have the desired effect. He went back to feeling his way along until he reached the corner of a building, where he froze.

The consultant froze as well. He did not think he had done anything to give himself away, but Winchester's head was tilted towards him. A few hundred heartbeats later, Winchester's shoulders slumped and his hands went to rub at his swollen red rimmed eyes. The consultant darted forward on soundless feet. His long fingers flipped the cap off the syringe he had prepared. The dripping needle was centimeters from the taller man's neck when Winchester lunged away, lashing backwards with a knife the consultant had not seen him pull.

The consultant stumbled back. The tip of the blade caught his coat, snagging for a moment on the thick wool above his collar bone, but not reaching his skin. Winchester jabbed the blade at his chest, but the consultant side stepped the strike and caught his wrist, pulling Winchester off balance. He jammed the needle into the captured arm, and then hopped away, intending to stay out of reach until the drugs felled the larger man.

Winchester should have dropped within seconds, even if the consultant had injected muscle instead of the vein he'd aimed for. The dosage he had chosen risked sending Winchester into a coma, but the man kept moving, albeit with less coordination, advancing with his knife raised.

"What are you? Who are you?" he asked in a voice that was nearly a sob. "I know you're there. It's you not him, I felt you stab me!"

The knife slashed through the air two feet to the consultant's right. Winchester hissed and flinched away from some unseen thing, moving even farther away from the only real threat in the alley.

The consultant took another syringe form his pocket. This dose was just as strong as the first, a backup in case one was broken in a struggle.

With one hand, Winchester took a mobile phone from his jacket pocket, keeping the knife raised in the other. The consultant did not try to stop him, knowing this would probably work out in his favor. He was close enough to hear the phone ring and gruff male voice say "leave a message". Winchester's body slumped, but he did not lower his knife. He stabbed the air a few more times, perhaps in frustration.

"Dean, I'm sorry. I was going to get coffee and I got lost. Please come get me. I'm not sure where. I can't…I can't…I think someone's here and I can't…please come get me," he begged.

If the consultant were prone to defects like sympathy and pity he might have felt them then. These few minutes of close study showed him Sam Winchester was suffering from severe sleep deprivation. He wondered if it was Fatal Familial Insomnia. That disease affected fewer than 50 families on the entire planet, but it might explain the Winchesters' psychosis. Then again, no one lived for more than three months after symptoms started, and the Winchesters had been on a delusional rampage for at least seven years.

The consultant circled, trying to get around behind his target, but Winchester kept moving. Though apparently unable to see past his hallucinations, his hearing was somewhat intact. It took a few minutes to creep close enough, but he was patient.

This time, the consultant managed jabbed the needle into the taller man's jugular. He avoided the lashing knife entirely. It fell from Winchester's hand and clattered away across the pavement. The disoriented man got down on one knee and felt around for it. A few moments later he toppled over completely, landing on his face. The consultant rolled him over and saw his eyes were open. They seemed focused on him now, though it was too late to do him any good.

The drugs had paralyzed Winchester, but he was still conscious. The consultant was not certain how much information his prisoner was actually taking in, given what should be a lethal dose of sedative, but he knew it could ruin the rest of his plan. He considered just ending Sam Winchester's part in this. He could snap his neck, or just cover the prone man's mouth and nose. It might even be merciful.

The consultant took off his scarf and wound it over his prisoner's eyes and then set about binding his wrists and ankles. He frisked him and found a few more knives, lock picks, and two other phones, which he left in the alley. He also found a motel room key, and recognized the pine tree stamped fob from his research earlier in the day. It was likely Dean Winchester would be in room 14 as well. When his prisoner was secure, he walked the five blocks to his rental car and drove it around to the alley. The hardest part of the night thus far was lifting the 120 kilogram man into the back seat.

When he had caught his breath, the consultant took the phone he had been given from the glove box and dialed the only number in the contacts list.

"Mr. Roman's office, how may I direct your call?" answered a chipper female voice.

"This is Sherlock. Tell Mr. Roman I have the younger one."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 -0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, had initially given himself 12 minutes to make observations, as that was the minimum amount of time it would take for Dean Winchester to drive to and from the alley where Sherlock had left Sam Winchester's phones. He knew it was unlikely that the man would find the phones and give up there, but he was prepared for that.

He was actually less prepared for a longer wait, given that the drugs he had injected the younger Winchester with were not as effective as they should have been. There was also the risk that Sam would smother or choke on his own vomit while bound up in the back seat of the rental car.

He began his observations at the door. There were numerous arcane symbols scratched into the paint, but he did not find a single sign of electronic surveillance. He picked the lock and stepped across the threshold, lined with salt. He found more charms and symbols strewn about inside, over the doors, above the beds. Only slightly less numerous than the charms, were the weapons. He found two knives, a shotgun, two pistols, and a machete, and then he went to check the other bed. He also found two bottles of water with "holy" written on the side in permanent marker and several bottles of some sort of detergent solution, though he was not sure of the exact mix. There was also copious amounts of alcohol, mostly in the form of medium to low quality whisky.

He spent the next hour and 45 minutes collecting personal data on the two men, and preparing. When Dean Winchester returned to the room everything was in place.

Sherlock watched the elder Winchester brother storm back into his rented room, slamming the door behind him. He then pulled a mobile phone from his jacket and made a series of calls. From the tone of his voice as he spoke to the police, and then the hospitals, it was apparent that Dean Winchester was genuinely terrified for his missing sibling.

The man was not the sociopath the files claimed. Sociopaths did not bother with the act when they were unobserved, or at least when they thought they were. As he hung up his phone, various shades of grief and guilt colored Winchester's features.

From his hiding place in the motel bathroom, Sherlock watched Winchester take a dented flask from his pocket, and drink the entire contents in one long gulp. He then knelt and dragged a green duffle from under his bed, digging out a half empty bottle of Jack Daniel's to refill it.

Not a sociopath, but definitely an alcoholic.

Winchester took a drink from the bottle and then began to fill the flask. The smaller silver container seemed almost to leap from his hands, and he cursed as whiskey spilled over his legs and the carpet. He picked up the flask and tried to fill it again, but his hand shook as if the flask were fighting him. He cursed, took another drink straight from the bottle, and then returned the flask to his pocket, empty.

Winchester took a gun from the waist band of his pants, checked the clip and then put it back, patting his pockets for gear before getting up and moving towards the door, ready to go out and search again. Half way there he staggered and fell against the beds. He tried to get up and this time fell all the way to the floor. He was out of Sherlock's visual field, so he waited until the sound of thrashing weakened and finally stopped before moving to bind his second captive.

The motel room was cold, at least 6 degrees colder than it had been when he entered. Sherlock saw his breath as white fog as he knelt and searched the elder Winchester brother, removing myriads of weapons and three phones. He was about to relieve the man of the flask when the Jack Daniel's bottle struck him between the shoulder blades with a dull thud.

Sherlock whirled, but no one was there. He scanned the room but the only movement was the drugged whiskey dribbling out onto the carpet. He pushed the bottle with his toe, but it did not react. He waited, all senses alert. The room warmed. The bottle lay still.

The blow from the bottle was barely enough to hurt, but it was impossible, and that was far more disturbing. He knew from the reports that the Winchesters believed in ghosts and telekinesis and all other sorts of supernatural nonsense. He knew they were right about at least one kind of monster. That did not mean they were right about it all.

The world did not work that way.

It did not.

He knew it did not.

He bound up Dean Winchester, as he had Sam, and went to get his car.


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: So it looks like it will be a little more than three chapters, still aiming to edit it down to 10,000 words though.

Warnings for foul language from Dean and Lucifer. Warnings for a bunch of Supernatural season 7 spoilers. Seriously, I mention character deaths.

Disclaimer: Moffat, Gatiss, Doyle, and Kripke own these characters.

The Roman Inquisition

Chapter 2

Sam Winchester wished for the hundred millionth time that he had normal problems. If a normal person were drugged, blindfolded, tied up, and shoved into the foot well of a car, he or she might keep track of the turns the car took or the time that had passed or listen for railroad crossings and other telltale sounds. A normal person might then use that information to figure out where they were being taken, and for what purpose. Going down that route, a normal person would not have been so overwhelmed by hallucinations that they would be drugged and kidnapped in the first place.

A normal would not have an echo of the Devil living his head.

Lucifer, who had been shouting random numbers interspersed with the sound of jet engines, paused for a moment.

"Don't be like that bunk buddy," Lucifer said. "Nobody really wants to be normal. All the cool people are freaks. A t-shirt told us that just last month, remember?"

Sam did remember. He and Dean had been stocking up on cheap clothes at an outlet mall. Sam had smiled when he read the shirt on an acne speckled teenager boy, who was talking to a beautiful young woman. She was out of Sam's league, much less the kid's. And then Lucifer had _improved_ the teenager's face with thousands of extra pustules that then exploded. The hallucination caused Sam to lose his lunch in a garbage can, but he had managed to hang on to reality. The burning pain in his esophagus had been enough to shake off the Devil's hold. He never thought he'd be in a situation where that was part of the good old days. Pain no longer drove Lucifer off. Sam had not slept in almost a week, and the less he slept the worse the hallucinations got.

"You think this is bad? I've got much worse planned," Lucifer said. "But I may not have to do anything. It looks like you've got bigger problems at the moment. I have a good feeling about this guy. He might have you back in Hell before the end of the night. And then it will be just us and all the time in the world, at least until some other moron restarts the apocalypse."

Sam glared at the inside of his blind fold. Lucifer was unperturbed.

"How do you think this guy'll kill you? I hope it's embarrassing, strangled behind a porno theater for example. That'll get the chip off your shoulder. No more of this 'I jumped into Hell to save the world' bullshit. No big sacrifice this time. You'll go out a defiled rotten corpse like all humans should."

_No_, Sam thought, trying to be confident, _I called Dean, he'll get to me before this whatever-it-is chews off my face or feeds me to its young._

"You really are terrible at your job, you know," Lucifer said. "You've been a monster hunter since before your balls dropped and you still can't figure out when something is human."

Sam wanted to deny it, on principle alone. There were plenty of creatures that would try to take their prey alive, in order to torture and/or eat them later, but those creatures would not have bothered with drugs, and any monster worth its salt would have been able to get Sam into the car without coming as close to a hernia as his captor did.

"Oh, we're here," Lucifer said as the car stopped. "It's not too late to place your bet. Come on Sammy! Live a little!"

The car shifted as the driver got out.

"Live a little? Nothing? Come on Sammy, that was a good one," Lucifer said.

The door behind Sam's head opened. Cold fingers pressed against his throat to take his pulse, and then withdrew. Then a hand grabbed his hair and gave a sharp tug. Sam couldn't even shout in protest, much less pull free. That was probably what his captor was checking for, because he closed the door a moment later, leaving Sam alone with the Devil.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but Lucifer had gone though fire ants, drips of scalding water, actual fire, random stabbing, and itching by the time his captor returned.

The door by his feet creaked open, the sound still muffled by the scarf wrapped around his face. A weight landed on top of him, crushing him further down into the foot-well. It was a body, no, it was a person, still breathing, still alive.

Sam couldn't move but he could feel a chin digging through his blindfold into his cheek, a shoulder pressing into his sternum, and knees knocking against his thighs. He didn't have to guess who the other captive was. The unconscious man reeked of whisky and a distinct sour-onion smell that clung to Dean's t-shirts, even after they'd been through the wash. When Dean was freaking out and in need of a shower, it was hard to miss.

_At least we're both alive_, Sam thought, trying to take his mind off the fact that it was much harder to breathe with his brother's weight on his chest in addition to whatever drug he'd been dosed with. _And now I have to think up an escape plan for both of us. If the guy came back for Dean, he's not just a random freak, which…is probably just as terrible as if he was. You couldn't skip the damn pie, could you Dean? _Sam was pretty sure if he could see at all, he'd be seeing spots.

"Well this is cozy," Lucifer said. "You know, bunk buddy, I've drowned you in your brother's blood a few times and I've worn his face while I had my fun with you, but it never occurred to me to literally let Dean smother you to death. It's kind of ironic, isn't it?"

_That's not what ironic means, jackass_, Sam thought as hard as he could, since ignoring the Devil wasn't making him go away. Not thinking about not breathing wasn't helping much either.

The car creaked again and Dean's weight shifted. His captor had apparently noticed the problem. The man said nothing as he wrestled Dean's limp body up onto the seat. The door slammed and the car shifted again as their captor got in the driver's seat. The ride was long, but thankfully Dean didn't fall on him again despite sharp turns and sudden stops.

Dean was taken from the car first. Sam heard their captor wheezing as he dragged him away. Sam's turn came shortly after. He was dragged by his arms, so his head didn't bounce along the ground, but he was really annoyed by the leaves, grass, and bits of gravel that were working their way down the back of his pants. His butt bumped over a curb, up a step and then over a threshold. He heard a door shut and the scarf was removed.

Lucifer was there, but he could see his captor next to him. He seemed to be a man, with unusually high cheek bones and dark curly hair. The man leaned over him, prying back Sam's eyelids. The man's eyes were a light color, blue or grey but the weak yellow light in the small windowless room made it hard to be sure. The man's face was flushed and sweat was dripping down his temples. He was wearing a heavy wool coat despite the pleasant weather.

"Do you see your brother, there?" the man asked pointing. He had a very deep voice and a British accent. Sam's mind went straight to bad luck and rabbits' feet.

Sam looked between his captor and Lucifer, who was standing next to Dean, giving him a little finger wave. Dean was slumped in a chair, his arms bound behind his back. Sam could see vomit all over the right side of his brother's jacket. He was breathing though and giving little twitches that meant he would be waking up soon.

"Do you see him? Do you understand what is happening? Blink twice for no, once for yes," the British man ordered.

Sam fluttered his eyelids, just to give the guy some hell. His captor huffed and vanished from his field of view. He returned with plastic bottle and splashed water on Sam's face.

"I have two bottles of water. I am going to be leaving your brother here in this room, for an indeterminate amount of time. He will have nothing else to drink, and the drugs I have given him will leave him severely dehydrated, even without the unexpected but profuse vomiting on his part. If you would like me to waste both bottles confirming that I have your attention, do feel free to continue your little protest. Do you see your brother?"

Sam blinked once.

"Do you know where we are?"

Sam blinked twice.

The British man nodded in a satisfied manner and jabbed Sam in the neck with yet another syringe. He wasn't knocked unconscious, but he couldn't move his body at all. His eyes slipped closed and it felt like a hippopotamus was sitting on his chest. He felt a blind fold being tied over his eyes, and wondered why his captor bothered since he couldn't open them anyway. He heard retching and a cough and knew Dean was awake.

"Sammy? Son of a bitch! Leave him alone! Son of a bitch!" Dean rasped.

Sam could hear his brother's chair creaking and more retching. He wanted to tell his brother to calm down and be quiet, worried their captor would gag Dean and he'd choke on his own puke. He couldn't speak though, or even move as he was dragged back outside. His brother's shouts faded long before they reached the car.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 -0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Dean Winchester puked a little more and cursed a lot.

His head was still reeling from the drugged booze. He was pretty sure the creepy British freak was human, maybe a witch or something. He hoped this wasn't another demon worshiping serial killer, since one of those in a month was more than enough, and the Winchesters' truce with the King of Hell was pretty shaky at the moment.

_Why show Sam to me and then just take him away again? Or was he showing me to Sam? It doesn't make any sense, unless this guy is using me as a hostage to get Sammy to do something. The creepy British bastard could be a Hunter who's heard of Sam's freaky demon killing powers. We've managed to stay clear of those freaks for a couple of years now, but good things don't last. I don't even know how Sam's resurrected re-souled body will react if someone pours demon blood down his throat. Shit. What will that guy do to Sam if he can't deliver?_

If that was the bastard's plan, Dean had to get out of this damn chair like yesterday. Sam's poor cracked up brain could not handle a rekindled demon blood addiction on top of the scrambled mess Castiel and Lucifer had left him with.

Dean took a deep slow breath, trying to settle his stomach even if he couldn't calm down. He was in a very old, very solid wooden chair. It was bolted to the floor and his ankles were tied to the legs, so kicking his way free was not an option. The chair had arms, and on each arm sat an open bottle of water. He could lean forward just far enough to pick up them with his teeth, if he got very thirsty, and ignored the possibility that the water was drugged too. His own arms had been shoved through the slats that made up the back of the chair and tied together. He tugged on the ropes, wondering why he had been bound with them instead of the zip ties he had seen around Sam's wrists and ankles.

He twisted his wrists and found the rope was oddly greasy, but nowhere near slick enough for him to pull his hands free. He tried anyway, but twenty minutes of effort managed only to take a layer of skin off, without loosening his bonds in the slightest.

He lunged forward in the chair, trying to break the slats. The slats dug into his biceps and wrenched his shoulders. The chair remained whole. He tried again. Another hours' effort earned him aching shoulders, a pulled muscle in his abdomen, and his only water spilled on the floor.

"Shit," he muttered.

At times like this other people might pray, but Dean knew from firsthand experience that the powers in Heaven and Hell could not care less that he and Sam were in trouble and suffering. The bastards were probably watching gleefully, munching popcorn and taking bets. And the last human being on earth who had cared about him and his brother had died more than a month ago.

Dean shivered and wondered if the drugged whisky was preparing another awful surprise for him. He saw his breath cloud up in front of him, and realized it wasn't a normal drop in temperature. A ghost was near. He looked around slowly, but whatever it was it hadn't manifested. Had the British bastard left him staked out as ghost bait? Bound to a chair with no salt and no iron, he didn't stand a chance.

_Maybe this will be the one time in a million where the dead guy's friendly._ He choked back the bitter laugh that thought inspired, since he didn't know what would set the thing off.

He flinched as cold fingers brushed against his arms, and trailed down over his rubbed raw wrists. The unseen fingers tugged at the rope. It made his wrists sting, but the tugging came again, more purposefully this time.

Dean squashed down the hope starting to flutter in his chest. _With my luck it will be some S and M bastard making sure I'm good and trapped. _The tugging stopped. Very slowly Dean turned his head. He didn't see anything but the four blank walls and the closed door. The dim yellow light above him flickered once. His skin tingled with the same creepy feeling he always got around ghosts, but this thing didn't give off angry or crazy vibes like a lot of them did. He took a breath.

"Hello?" Dean called. He was never good at talking to ghosts, aside from one-liners and threats anyway. Sam was definitely the Jennifer Love Hewitt in the family. "Hey! I know you're there. I could really use some help, you know, if you're not too busy being dead."

He was pretty sure Sam was shooting him a bitchy look from however many miles away he was, for being insensitive. _Screw sensitive!_ Dean thought triumphantly as the tugging resumed.

"Also I gotta' pee, and if you don't want me stinking up your haunted shack you'll get your ass in gear," Dean said.

He thought he heard an amused snort.

The ghost had to be an old lady with severe arthritis because it took forever and a day to get the rope loose. He knew ghosts could get tired, or at least temporarily run out of the energy it took for them to interact with the real world. Even with constant pep-talks from Dean, this one barely stumbled along. It never did become visible, and the second the rope fell from his wrists to the floor, it was gone. The room warmed instantly.

Dean had to waste a few minutes flexing his swollen, sausage-looking fingers before he regained enough dexterity to untie his legs. He picked up the ropes and sniffed them. They smelled like fried chicken. Dean filed that away in the what-the-hell category and approached the door.

It was locked, but the hinges were on the inside and it didn't take long for him to pop them out. He was tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the ghost to change its mind and start tossing him into walls, but it never did. He pushed the door and it toppled down over a low concrete stoop, landing on brown weedy grass. He could see a cracked, poorly maintained road, a few trees, and miles of empty fields. He paused in the doorway.

"Um…thanks dead guy," Dean said. "Or chick. You need me to avenge your death or find your body or something?"

Nothing answered him. Maybe it couldn't speak. Once he figured out where the hell he was, he'd find out who the dead person was, and figure out a way to pay them back. After he found his brother and beat the living shit out that British bastard, anyway.

Dean set out, checking his pockets as he jogged along the empty road. He had no money, no weapons, nothing but his puke smeared clothes and an empty flask. He cursed again and then sighed.

_Done more with less_, he thought. _Hang in there Sammy._


	3. Chapter 3

Notes: This story is just not going to fit into 10,000 words, Maybe 20,000? Anyway this chapter has a few plot spoilers for Season 2 of Sherlock, and a few for Season 7 of Supernatural, so be warned!

Disclaimed!

The Roman Inquisition

Chapter 3

They rode in silence, though Sam could not have said anything intelligible. Dean's rant as Sam was dragged away had pretty much coved all the four letter words he would have used. Sam found himself wishing for some cliché villain banter. His captor did not bother with questions, and seemed almost entirely disinterested in him. Sam started to worry that this was some kind of hired hit man, paid to bring him in alive and shut up about it.

_And who do we know who has the money to do something like that_? Sam thought. A few possibilities went through his mind, but vampires and shifters liked to get their vengeance personally.

"Come on Sammy. You know the answer, it bleeds black goo and rides around in a limo," Lucifer said.

_They wouldn't send a man_, Sam thought.

"Who am I to argue?" Lucifer said. "I'm just a being older than the planet you live on. You've got a lot of attitude for someone who can't even control his own brain. You're pretty cranky too. Does poor Sammy need a nap? Tell you what, if you can guess how many fingers I'm holding up, I'll let you sleep for that many minutes."

Normally he wouldn't give in and play these stupid games, but he was exhausted almost past caring at this point.

_Three_, Sam thought.

"What was that Sam? I can't hear you?" Lucifer said.

_Three, you bastard_, Sam thought again.

"Out loud, Sam. I'm not a psychic," Lucifer chided.

He tried to make a sound, any sound at all. The closest he got was a somewhat controlled puff of air past his lips. He puffed three times. Apparently that didn't count.

"Well if you don't want to sleep, that's fine with me," Lucifer said. "You know what I haven't heard in a long time? That old classic, fingernails on a chalk board. That's way more fun than three minutes of sleep. You probably wouldn't have guessed three, anyway."

It was a long ride.

It was so long Sam regained some mobility in his limbs by the time the car stopped; just not nearly enough to escape, or even stand up on his own. The door behind his head was yanked open and he was hauled out onto gravel. With a small pocket knife, his captor sliced the zip ties binding his ankles and wrestled him upright. The scarf slipped off his face but his hair fell in his eyes leaving him half blind. He saw an expansive lawn and a long gravel drive.

His captor grabbed his elbow and pulled him. Sam resisted and slouched back toward the gravel, thinking he should at least be as difficult as possible.

"Walk, or when I go back for your brother I will take my not inconsiderable frustration out on him." His captor said evenly. He didn't even bother to growl the threat.

Sam thought for a moment about whether it was likely to be carried out. He grunted acknowledgement, and shuffled along, though his captor was supporting most of his weight.

Sam tired to flip his hair out of his eyes but moving his head made him dizzy. He could see they were in a residential area, but the next nearest house was 100 yards away. The house they were ever-so-slowly approaching was a single story ranch style, with neat flower boxes under the windows. Sam saw a porcupine shaped boot scraper on the porch. A shred of bloody gray-haired scalp hung among the bristles.

The front door was unlocked, but a little bell chimed as his captor pushed it opened.

"Sherlock, is that you?" called a male voice, also British.

"Who else would it be?" his captor, Sherlock snapped, pushing Sam forward.

The living room was furnished with old but comfortable looking couches, and Sam face planted on one thanks to a hard shove from behind. He tried to get up, but Sherlock caught his ankles. When he let go, Sam was hobbled again with new zip ties.

"I was hoping for girl scouts. I could use a snack," the other voice replied cheerfully. Its owner wandered into the room with a steaming cup of tea in his hands. The man was fairly short with close cropped blond hair, sprinkled with gray. He wore a beige sweater and khaki pants. He had a thin mouth, a prominent nose, and what was probably a permanent worry line between his eyebrows.

"You weren't supposed to go off on your own, Sherlock," the man chided.

"You would have been in my way," he replied.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" the small man said. "Or perhaps some cocaine? I'm having a bit of both, so it wouldn't be any trouble."

"Stop it!" Sherlock growled.

Sam looked between them, and the smaller man caught his gaze. "Hello," he said. "I'm John Watson."

"You are not," Sherlock said.

"You are prickly about the strangest things," not-John said, blowing on his tea.

"Leviathan," Sam said, a bit surprised when the word came out as a word.

"How do you know I'm not a shifter?" the small man asked.

"Shifters don't eat girl scouts," Sam mumbled.

"We both know there are a dozen other things I might be," not-John said. "Has Sherlock been chatting with you? He knows he's not supposed to."

"The Devil told me," Sam said, wondering why he wasn't trying to put all possible blame on the bastard who'd drugged him.

The Leviathan stared at him for a moment and then shrugged and turned to Sherlock.

"I suppose you want me to down load his mind and find out where his brother is?" the Leviathan asked.

"That will not be necessary," Sherlock said. "I have them both."

"Is the other one out in the car?"

"No. He is somewhere secure," Sherlock said.

"You were supposed to bring them both straight to us," the Leviathan in the beige sweater said.

"And if I had you would have killed John and me along with them. Obvious. Now that you know I have them, we will renegotiate."

The Leviathan made a hissing sound that inspired Sam's mostly numb skin to crawl. He felt a little bad for his kidnapper, realizing it was a hostage situation. He still hated the man's guts of course, since he had no desire to be a bargaining chip or a monster's snack. He wondered if the man even considered asking Dean and him for help.

"Maybe he heard about the last guy you rescued from the Leviathans, and decided he didn't want his pal shot in the head," Lucifer said.

"I can just get the location from him or you," the Leviathan said.

"Do feel free to try. Sam here does not know where his brother is, and I have deleted the information from my own mind. I can find where I hid him, but despite your long rambling boasts of superiority, you won't."

_Deleted?_ Sam thought. _Is this guy some kind of robot? Some kind of crappy robot with no upper body strength?_

"Maybe he's a Mandroid," Lucifer suggested.

The small man grabbed Sam's throat and suddenly there was another Sam standing in the room. Leviathan-Sam glared at the British man, and then winced and glared at Sam, almost accusingly.

"Seriously, why haven't you just killed yourself? This is just bloody miserable," the Leviathan said, its form melting and shrinking back into the small beige garbed blond. "And just because he doesn't know doesn't mean you've won. I can just kill you now and wait for Dean to starve to death."

Sherlock sneered. "As if I hadn't thought of that. Dean Winchester will be able to escape from his current location within 48 hours and, give or take a few fingers lost to rats, he will be perfectly capable of continuing his crusade against Roman Enterprises."

"And you brought Sam to prove you had them both, because we both know he is the lesser threat," the Leviathan said. "Given his degenerating mental state I'm surprised he's still moving around under his own power. What are your new terms?"

Sam stomped down the urge to snap at the two of them for talking around him, but his mental state had not 'degenerated' to the point that drawing a flesh-eating monster's attention seemed like a good idea.

"You will bring John Watson to Sunnybrook shopping center, 6000 Market road, 11 O'clock tomorrow," Sherlock said. "I will meet you there with the older brother and we will make our exchange. I will know if you try to send a duplicate in John's place. We will return to London and you will not attempt to pursue us."

Sam wanted to tell the man not to bother. The Leviathans would never keep their end of a bargain. Then again, this guy could apparently hide information from the creatures, which Sam had not thought possible.

"So you're perfectly content to leave the Winchesters with us? No impulse to try to save them?" the Leviathan asked. "Because your little friend John, he'd want you to save them. I can see it in his mushy little head, all full of ideals and hero worship. He'll be so disappointed in you."

"He has been before," Sherlock said. "He will get over it. Will you be dispatching this one now?"

Sam scowled as they both looked at him.

"I would like to eat him," the Leviathan said. "But the boss wants to do him in front of his brother. My car is in the garage. Bring him."

"It will be extremely inconvenient to have to haul him around," Sherlock said. "Can't you just make a video of his grizzly death and show it to the brother? You are giving him unnecessary chances to escape."

Sam found his reservoir of sympathy rapidly drying up. He wondered if he could kill Sherlock or get the Leviathan to do it. It could be Dean's only chance. The creature was already pissed off. Maybe Sherlock would bring it on himself before Sam had to do anything.

"Call your superior and see if you can't get permission to be a little less of a moron," Sherlock said.

The Leviathan lunged at Sherlock and shoved him against the wall. "You don't give me orders, meat."

Sherlock did not look even slightly perturbed at being bounced off the wall.

"Someone has to. Clearly Roman has very little faith in you, or he would not require you to call in so frequently. We both know he is not pleased that you lost track of me, or that it took you so long to report it. You are already on the fast track to being 'bibbed' I believe the term is?"

The Leviathan gritted its teeth and flung Sherlock into the center of the room.

"I'm to bring you back alive, but your brain's the only part of you the boss has any interest in," it said as it stalked up to him. "I take that to mean your limbs and most of your organs are negotiable. With dear Watson's medical knowledge I could par you down to a head and a half hollow torso and keep you breathing."

Sam could see the creature's face, shadowed with an expression that on a human face would have been lust. It licked its lips with a pair of thin snake like tongues. Sam looked at Sherlock, and was a little impressed to see his face was still totally impassive.

"Yes, yes. How very terrifying. I am most assuredly cowed," Sherlock said, flipping open a small phone and pressing the speed dial.

The Leviathan looked startled and patted down its pockets. It tried to snatch the phone back, but Sherlock dodged away, and put it on speaker just as a secretary picked up.

"Mr. Roman's office. How may I direct your call?" a male voice asked.

"This is Sherlock. I have an update."

"One moment, please," he said.

A tinny rendition of _The Blue Danube_ played over the cheap speaker phone as they waited for the top Leviathan to pick up. The phone clicked.

"Er…hello?" asked a familiar voice. It was the exact same voice the Leviathan was speaking with.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, hello Sherlock," the man said, his voice was bright but a little vague. "You've been gone a while. Are you coming back?"

Sam wondered if the Leviathans were feeding the poor bastard the same drugged crap Dean had eaten at the Biggerson's restaurant.

"Soon," Sherlock said. "Is Roman there? I need to speak with him."

"No. He went to a meeting, with a real person I think since he went out instead of bringing them to his office. He's been gone a while. Oh. This would be good time to escape, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock said. "A very good time."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 -0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

**[A Little Earlier That Day…]**

John Watson mechanically sipped his tea and watched Richard Roman talk. The man did not seem concerned that John was barely paying him any attention. He could have been talking to a house plant and received as much of a response._ I feel like a house plant_, John thought.

He knew the tea and biscuits were drugged. The woman who'd given him the mug and plate had announced they were from lot#786D, and had given him a questionnaire to fill out.

On a scale of 1 to 5 with 5 being strong agreement and 1 being strong disagreement please rate the following statements:

1.) These cookies are appropriately sweet.

2.) These cookies have a pleasant texture and mouth feel.

3.) These cookies are filling.

4.) I will participate in an outdoor activity or exercise after eating these cookies.

5.) I will eat as many of these cookies as are available

6.) I will go to any length to obtain more of these cookies.

7.) These cookies make me crave human flesh.

8.) These cookies are visually appealing.

John was annoyed to find himself filling the damn thing out. He did it with all threes though. _Take that evil market research_. He watched dust motes float thought the air in front of the window. Out past them he could see a plane going by, a white contrail streaking out behind it. _I almost wish I was back on the plane_, he thought.

The funny thing was, even though John knew he and Sherlock were going to be hunting two mad men who went about shooting people with silver bullets and setting corpses on fire, he really had expected the worst part of the case to be the plane ride; sixteen hours in a little metal tube with Sherlock Holmes entertaining himself by deducing the most sordid details of the other passengers' lives at a very indiscreet volume. It was as bad as he thought it would be, and he'd had to beg on bended knee to stop two different flight attendants from calling the air marshal on them.

_It was bad, but of course it can always get worse._

A chauffer in a black uniform met them at O' Hare International airport. The man had shaken Sherlock's hand but seemed uninterested in John, which at the time seemed both rude and odd. Sherlock must have thought so too, though he did not say so. John recognized the contemplative look on his face. The chauffer put their bags in the trunk of a black sedan with tinted windows. Sherlock was quiet for most of the ride to the corporate offices of Richard Roman Enterprises.

"Go on to the hotel," Sherlock said as the front gates came in sight. "You are jet lagged and you'll hardly be of any use to me at this initial meeting."

John had given him a hard stare. "What's actually wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm not certain. Not enough data," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand.

"You promised you wouldn't do this again," John said, annoyed that he had to remind him. "Leaving me behind and lying to me for 'my own good'. You promised."

"I did. You didn't manage to sneak your gun through customs, did you?" he asked.

"No," John said.

Sherlock huffed, as if disappointed.

They had walked from a parking garage through a posh lobby and taken a private glass elevator up to Roman's office. The secretary had showed them in and then waited behind them, in front of the doors. She was barely John's height and rail thin. She wore a short gauzy dress that was tight enough to show she was not hiding a gun or any such thing on her person. He thought she was waiting for the order to get tea. He had not considered her a threat.

Richard Roman stood up from behind his desk and offered Sherlock his hand with a well practiced smile, but Sherlock made no move to take it and then…and then…

John's mind still skittered away from what had happened next. He tried to convince himself that they had been drugged, like they had been in H.O.U.N.D. case, gassed with some sort of hallucinogen during the drive to the office.

Roman's plastic smile had stretched and expanded and his entire face had peeled back to make room for a mouth full of shark's teeth. John had turned, pulling Sherlock back towards the door, but the secretary's face had split open and her mouth was just as large and horrifying. John tried to shove her out of the way and her hands caught his shoulders. She flung him against the wall.

He knew Sherlock and Roman had carried on talking as the secretary chased John around the room. He had dodged and leapt over furniture, pulling on the locked doors and clawing at the hermetically sealed windows. The secretary had followed, her face human-looking again. John tried to go on the offensive. He grabbed up a halogen floor lamp and struck her over the head with it. The blow did not slow her down, or hurt her at all really. She did not even seem mad until he grabbed a pen off Roman's deck and jammed it into her throat. Black ooze spurted from the wound onto her dress. She glanced down at the stain and then back-handed him across the face so hard his vision whited out.

He wished he had been able to keep as calm as Sherlock had, but he honestly didn't remember more than a few of the words they exchanged. He knew Sherlock had agreed to track down the Winchester brothers in exchange for their lives, but by the time the secretary had caught John and wrestled him into a chair, the negotiation seemed over.

"And he'll be right here, keeping me company until you've delivered both Sam and Dean," Roman was saying.

The secretary pulled a chain out of under Roman's desk and manacled John's leg to it. The chain was only about three meters long, so John could sit in the guest's chair, but could not get near the door or the windows. The manacle was far too thick for John to slide down over his foot, even if he did break a few bones in it.

"John has many friends. They will become suspicious if he does not contact them, or if he neglects his blog," Sherlock said.

"We've made arrangements," Roman said.

The secretary grabbed John's face with her manicured hands and suddenly there were two Johns in the office.

"I know everything he knows," the secretary said with John's voice. "I know every secret you've ever told him and every secret he's never told you. Did you know Irene Adler was killed by the terrorists she worked for? He told you she got into witness protection in the U.S. to spare your feelings, even though he was terribly jealous of her. He still is actually."

"I see," Sherlock said tonelessly, as John gawked at the duplicate in horror.

"Good," Roman said. "A few more details before you hit the road. We've taken your phone. You'll be provided with a replacement, but don't get any ideas about calling that dangerous brother of yours. We have a few people in his department and we will hear about it. Now get to it, Sherlock. We know you won't let us down."

And Sherlock had left with the fake John, without another word to the real one.

John had lost track of time since then. He knew a large guard had unchained his leg and escorted to him to Roman's private bathroom several times. Sherlock had called in, earlier today, or maybe it was yesterday, to tell Roman that he had captured Sam Winchester. John had wanted to talk to Sherlock, to tell him to let the poor man go, but Roman had not let him.

"-don't understand pets. John? John I asked you a question!" Roman's voice grew sharp and John focused again.

"I'm sorry. I drifted off there," John said. "Could you repeat that?"

"Why do humans keep pets? Guard dogs I understand, but what about those little fluffy things that just take up space? You don't even eat them. What's the point?"

John had a feeling Roman had probably said something very insulting before he'd asked the question the first time. John had received similar insults from Moriarty. Sherlock's opponents always seemed to think John was just some useless tagalong or yes man. He was almost used to it at this point. That did not mean he liked it.

"I am not a poodle. If I had my gun I'd shoot you in the face," John said, and then winced. "Said that out loud, did I?"

Roman nodded. "Make a note on your survey. My question, pets?" he prompted.

"Humans are social animals. They get lonely, but other humans can be heartless apathetic bastards. If you have a pet, like a dog, then you've always got someone who is happy you're around. Because you bring them treats and take care of them, they have to like you. It's like with children, except they don't grow up and leave you."

"You do not have a pet, correct?" Roman asked.

"Of course not! Sherlock poisons me regularly, and not always accidentally either. A dog wouldn't stand a chance," John said.

Roman nodded to himself and went back to typing on his computer. John wished he could scoot his chair around so he could see what the man was doing. It was probably something worth spying on, but John couldn't think of a way to do it without being obvious.

Roman made a few calls, which John could hear half of. There seemed to be some sort of FDA issue involving audits and demons. John wondered if Roman meant metaphorical demons, but at this point he doubted it. Roman agreed to meet with someone's bosses' boss at their office in Chicago. The appointment was in an hour. John knew this was important, and did his best to stare vacantly at the wall.

The secretary brought John another cup of tea, and insisted he finish it before she and Roman left. He was vaguely aware of Roman warning him not to make a mess of his office as he closed and locked the doors. This dose was much stronger then the last had been. It made the world hold still and then speed up in random bursts. It made his ears ring.

"No," he mumbled. "That's the phone."

He wondered how long that had been going on. He looked around and then, with a shrug, picked up. It was Sherlock calling, and that reminded John that he had to escape. Even Sherlock agreed that it was a good idea, which was pretty rare.

"I can't figure out how to pick the lock," John admitted. "You taught me how, but the desk is locked so I can't get anything out of the draws. There was that pen before, but I don't know where it went after I stabbed that woman in the neck. Should I try to chew off my foot? I don't think it will hurt that much since they've drugged me. Also I'm very hungry, even though I've been eating biscuits all day. Isn't that strange?"

John could hear rattling and banging in the background of Sherlock's call. "No! John, do not try to chew off your foot. Is Roman's computer monitor still on top of his desk?"

"Yes. Is something wrong, you sound a bit off?" John asked.

"I am fine," Sherlock said. "Break open the monitor, smash it on the corner of the desk. There should be several long steel strips inside you can use as picks."

John put the phone on speaker and smashed as ordered. He found the strips. "Got them!" he said.

"Good. What do you plan to do once you are out of the office? The elevator is under guard, as is the lobby and parking garage," Sherlock said. There was another loud bang and a shout.

"I'm going to start a few things on the fire and go down the stairwell," John said. "I heard Roman complain about people going there to smoke, so I don't think it's enclosed. I think if I jump from the first floor I'll avoid anyone checking faces on ground floor."

"Good," Sherlock said. John found himself smiling. His plan had received two 'goods' from Sherlock and neither one had sounded sarcastic. He wondered if that was record. There was a loud clang in the background. Sherlock continued, his voice more strained, "This is very important. Pay attention, John. When you get away from the building it is imperative that you-"

SNAP!

The phone on Roman's desk made a plaintive beep. He tried hitting redial, but the phone refused to dial out.

"Damn," John muttered.

Then he shrugged. He had a Sherlock approved plan. He'd figure the rest out when he was outside, away from the monsters and the drugs. He saw a biscuit he must have dropped on the floor under Roman's desk. He nibbled at it as he set about picking the lock.


	4. Chapter 4

The Roman Inquisition

Chapter 4

Sam probably would have found the situation funny if it was happening on TV, or if he was hearing about it later over beers, or if he was not the one being stumbled over and stepped on as the Leviathan chased Sherlock around the living room. The creature was desperate to retrieve its phone, and Sherlock was just as determined to talk his drugged friend John through his escape attempt. Shortly after they both vaulted the coffee table for the third time, the creature decided Sherlock was more trouble than he was worth.

The small Leviathan opened its mouth, revealing jagged teeth and two slithering tongues. Sherlock turned, shedding his coat in a dramatic twirl that would have done a matador proud. The fabric flew off and smacked the wall and, somehow, he had a sword in his hand. Sam recognized the weapon, a scimitar stolen from his hotel room.

The Leviathan charged. Sherlock sidestepped and lashed down with his blade. The Leviathan startled sideways at the last moment, and the steel sliced its arm instead of its neck. Black blood spattered the wall.

It snatched up a floor lamp and tried to knock the sword from Sherlock's hands. The wound on its arm healed in the time it took to cross the room. Sherlock parried the blow but stumbled over the rug. Sam heard the cell phone clatter to the floor.

Sam rolled himself off the sofa and scooted around the coffee table, hoping the knife Sherlock had used before was in the abandoned coat's pocket, and not his pants. His fingers had just closed on the thick wool when a hand clamped down on his ankle and pulled. Sam's body left the ground for an instant and then he was tumbling across the living room floor, crashing through an end table and coming to a stop by the kitchen door.

Sam tried to sit up, searching for the creature that had thrown him. Suddenly Sherlock's legs blocked his view and the pocket knife, already folded open, dropped to the floor by his face. As Sherlock charged the Leviathan again, Sam rolled to grab the small blade with his bound hands. He cut the ties around his ankles first, and freed his hands as he fled. The spinning room reminded him that he was still drugged and in no shape to take on a Leviathan unarmed.

Sam stumbled through the kitchen, yanking open drawers. He found a half dozen empty detergent bottles under the sink. The Leviathan had been smart enough to dump out everything with Borax in it when it took over the house. Sam hurried to the next room. It was a children's play room with short furniture and art supplies in low cabinets along the wall. Sam fumbled through the shelves, spilling paint and glitter across the floor.

His eyes settled on a short stack of star-shaped plastic tubs of SuperSlime. He hoped they hadn't changed the formula since he learned how they made the stuff in a fourth grade science class. He snatched them up, rushing back to the fight.

Sherlock lay sprawled under the living room window, which now bore a large blood smeared crack. His limbs twitched weakly, but he was obviously too stunned to get away. The Leviathan grabbed his left wrist, and when it had Sherlock's attention broke the bones. Sherlock screamed, and continued to wail even after the creature let go. The sound of Sam's shuffling feet went completely unnoticed.

The SuperSlime wouldn't splatter like liquid detergent would, so Sam smeared it over his hands in flat sheets. He grabbed the sides of the Leviathan's head, hoping to avoid the teeth, and hauled it backwards across the room. The reaction seared Sam's palms even as it ate into the monster's flesh and he had to let go, turning and flinging it away. Sam's half numb limbs didn't impart much force, but the creature tripped and fell over the lamp it had dropped.

The Leviathan hissed and clawed at its face, trying to stand at the same time. Sam poured another tub of Slime over his hand and slapped the Leviathan across the face. It back peddled, and Sam followed. He saw scimitar and grabbed it up. The creatures' stolen human face was just reforming as he swung the blade.

The head hit the floor with a dull thump, and the body tipped backward over the arm of the couch, coming to rest on the cushions and oozing black goo all over the floral slipcover. Sam kicked the head across the room, to make sure it couldn't easily reattach to the body.

His attention turned to the man who had kidnapped him, who had poisoned Dean and left him somewhere to be gnawed on by rats. Sherlock held his broken arm against his chest and fumbled against the wall with the other, trying to get up.

"Where is my brother?" Sam asked, sword raised.

"He is somewhere secure," Sherlock said. "And he will remain there until I have confirmation that John Watson is safe from the shape shifters."

"Leviathans," Sam corrected. "And if you want keep breathing you are going to show me where Dean is."

"We will retrieve John first. His life in immediate danger, your brother's is not," Sherlock said. "And if a flesh eating monster failed to intimidate me, do you really think you have a chance?"

"I'm a psychotic serial killer who is going to torture you and your friend John to death if you don't take me to my brother," Sam said. "So yeah, I think I've got a chance."

"You are no more a serial killer than I am," Sherlock said.

Sam just stared at him. Sherlock rolled his eyes and staggered to his feet.

"Richard Roman provided me with all of your records to expedite your capture," Sherlock said. "I know you are a trained killer, but you are not a serial, nor a spree killer. Though Roman never explicitly told me his organization framed you and your brother for the most notorious crimes you stand accused of, it was not hard to deduce once I understood the scope of the shape shifter's abilities."

"Leviathans," Sam corrected again. "Shape shifters are something else, and much easier to kill by the way. If you want to rescue your friend, we need to get Dean first. We'll need his help."

Sherlock looked unimpressed. "Once you have your brother, you will have no reason to rescue John."

"I already have a reason to rescue John," Sam said. "If he's a human being, it's my job to save him. You're the only one around here that has to worry. What the hell are you anyway?"

"I am human as well," Sherlock said.

"Then why couldn't the Leviathan read your thoughts?" Sam asked. "Why couldn't it find Dean?"

"I deleted the information from my own mind. There was nothing there for it to find," Sherlock said.

"Humans can't do things like that!" Sam said. "Do you have a soul?"

If the guy was an empty shell, like Sam had been while his own soul was trapped in Hell, it would explain his cut-throat behavior, though it would not explain Sherlock's determination to rescue his friend.

"Do you have time to waste with philosophical questions?" Sherlock asked. "I am willing to compromise. We will set out, now, for Richard Roman's headquarters. That will give us the best chance of intercepting John before he is recaptured by the…Leviathans. I will arrange for someone to free your brother, once I figure out where I left him."

"If you have friends to call up, why don't you get them to help rescue John?" Sam asked.

"I won't be calling a friend," Sherlock said. "I'll be calling my arch-enemy."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 -0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Dean looked into the display case of knives, and wished the guys running this camping store were a little less competent. They did not sell guns, and all the sharp objects were locked up tight. It was reinforced glass, so a smash and grab wouldn't work, especially since he needed to run to the dollar store next door to stock up on borax and salt, and hope no one stole his hotwired car in the meantime.

He'd have to knock out and tie up the two clerks, who were already eyeing him suspiciously. He couldn't blame them too much. He'd taken off his puke soaked jacket but he could still smell it, even over the whisky effervescing off his jeans. The sleeves of his shirt weren't quite long enough to cover up his raw and bloody wrists.

He would have preferred to go back to the last hotel he and Sam had stayed at, to restock on weapons and collect their notes and other gear, but when he'd finally reached civilization, Dean found he was several hundred miles away from the room he'd passed out in the previous night. He did not have time to waste back tracking, and the British Bastard might have tampered with or destroyed their supplies anyway.

He waited until all the other customers were gone. He was about to make his move when a woman in a pinstriped skirt and jacket walked in the door. Her head was bent down and her long brown hair fell over her shoulders. Gray polished fingernails tapped away at the little smart phone in her hands. He expected her to ask the clerks for directions back to Yuppie-ville, instead she came right up to his elbow.

"Pick something already," she said. "We haven't all day."

She hadn't looked up from her phone as she spoke, and Dean wondered if she had failed to notice that her poor bastard husband hadn't followed her in from the car. It took a moment longer for her accent to sink into his still reeling brain. She finally looked up and pointed at the nearer clerk, and then at the display case.

"We require service over here," she said, and the clerk shuffled over.

Dean was still trying to process the situation when she snapped her fingers in front of his face and pointed into the glass case. "Hunting knife? Ax? Machete? You're not thinking about the fish-scaler are you?"

Dean cleared his throat and the clerk gave him a pitying look. A werewolf tearing off his junk would have been less emasculating. "Uh…the Machete," he muttered. He looked at the woman. "Are you…getting one too?"

She snorted and went back to typing, pausing just long enough to hand the clerk her credit card. The man rang them up and tried to hand her the machete in a cardboard tube, along with a receipt. She gave the man a contemptuous look, and walked right out of the store. The clerk turned to hand it to Dean. Dean followed her, walking deliberately and slowly, so no one could accuse him of scurrying.

She was waiting just outside the door, still playing with her damned phone. Dean started walking across the lot to dollar store and she followed. He slowed a little to match her pace, sliding the machete out of the tube in case he needed to chop her head off. He was not sure how to proceed, so he decided to be obvious.

"Who are you?" Dean asked.

"My current I.D. says my name is Elspeth Jones, and I'll answer to that."

"You work for Crowley?" Dean asked.

"No," she said, still typing away.

"Cristo," Dean said.

She looked up then, with normal human eyes. "Not him either."

"Who, then?" Dean demanded as he struggled with jammed together shopping carts. "Cause the last chick who showed up just to be helpful was working for Satan."

The clerk in the dollar store gave them a wary look, which could have been due to the machete or the shouting about Satan.

"I assist a minor official in the British government, whose duties lately have revolved around cleaning up the various international incidents and scandals caused by Sherlock Holmes," she said.

"Who the hell is Sherlock Holmes?" Dean asked.

"Have you seen a tall dark haired man kidnapping your brother lately?" she said. "That'd be him."

"Shit," Dean muttered. "Is he some kind of evil James Bond wanna' be?"

She glanced up from her phone long enough to shoot him another look of contempt.

"Sherlock Holmes is an internationally famous consulting detective. Richard Roman hired him through legitimate channels to hunt down two spree killers who were threatening his company. We kept Sherlock and his… assistant Dr. John Watson under surveillance as a precaution. We became a bit concerned when Sherlock slipped our watchers, and John Watson started eating people."

"It's not him, the Watson guy I mean. A Leviathan took a bite out of him and is wearing his face. He didn't do anything," Dean said. Even though the other man was a stranger, and probably dead already, it felt wrong not to stand up for someone in the same situation as his brother and him.

"We know," she said.

"And how do you know when everyone else is freaking clueless?" Dean asked, tossing gallon bottles of E-Z Klean into the cart with more force than necessary. The cap popped off of one and splashed the woman's leg. Her skin did not start melting, but her glare could have peeled paint.

"Sherlock contacted us, via text," she said.

"He texted you?" Dean asked. "He happen to mention what he did with my brother?"

She turned her phone towards him and he read the tiny screen.

** {Go to 39.903416,-87.978516, free the prisoner. He will be upset. I am moving to intercept John, S. Winchester is assisting. Agents of RRE are also in pursuit. Shape shifting entities called 'Leviathan' involved. Decapitation recommended in conjunction with Na2[B4O5(OH)4] .8H2O } –SH**

"So you believe him?" Dean asked. "This dude just says 'shape shifting monsters' and the British government is like 'we'll get right on that'?"

"We certainly aren't going to wait around for these creatures to come knocking on our door," she said. "We are tracking the phone Sherlock is using and will catch up with him and your brother shortly, though not entirely on schedule, since we had to waste time looking for you."

"I'm not gonna apologize for not lying around tied up in a puddle of puke," Dean growled. The dollar store clerk gawked openly at them as Dean loaded the conveyor, tossing a pack of gum on the pile. The clerk totaled them up and the woman paid again.

Dean paused outside, wondering if he could risk this. He had no reason to believe anything this woman said. It was probably a trap, but why would they let him arm himself if that was true?

"We're taking my car," she said, tilting her head toward a black Mercedes that was pulling into the loading zone outside the store. A man in a black suit sat behind the wheel.

Dean considered objecting, but the only thing he'd left in the stolen vehicle was a vomit soaked jacket, and he did not have any pressing desire to get that back. His fingers went to the flask, now resting in his back pocket. If he was going to go his own way, this was the time, but he would be starting from scratch if he did. The woman acted like she knew it all, but he doubted she would have stopped to pick him up if she was capable of mixing it up with a Leviathan on her own.

Dean tossed the bottles of Borax in the truck and climbed into the car next to her. He kept the machete in his hands, the point stuck down into the expensive floor mat between his boots. He chewed his gum, loudly.

The driver seemed oblivious to them and Dean was convinced might-be-Elspeth was giving him instructions via text instead of talking to the man, though he was less than three feet away. They were only on the highway for ten minutes. At the first security gate, Dean tried to convince himself they were just going to trade cars. When they drove all the way out on to the tarmac, Dean felt his empty stomach trying to climb up into his throat.

"Oh, Hell no," Dean growled.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Sorry that took so long.

The Roman Inquisition

Chapter 5

The fall was not so bad, nor was the landing. Even though John heard something in his right leg snap, and his foot was oddly floppy as he hobbled away from the building, things really weren't so bad. He found himself humming the old Johnny Rivers song _Secret Agent Man,_ as he shuffled into the milling crowd of employees. They stood in the parking lot of Richard Roman Enterprises, and watched smoke pour out of cracked windows.

The fire had grown faster than John expected. He supposed the creatures were keeping more than paper and ink in the storerooms he'd lit up. People continued to flow out of the fire exits, looking worried and rumpled, but not physically hurt. That was good.

"Because arson is a bit not good," John said to himself.

The man next to John gave him a suspicious look, but did not suddenly grow a shark's mouth and try to bite him. John smiled at the man. The man inched away.

"The expense reports!" a woman wailed. "They were only 70 percent backed up!"

The woman had carried out a huge purse filled with files, even though John was pretty sure you were supposed to leave things like that behind, so as not to trip up other people fleeing for their lives. He saw a pocket book and a set of car keys in the bag as well.

"Hey, isn't that your office?" John said to her, pointing to a window that had just burst open.

The woman turned to look and John had her keys in his pocket before she turned back.

"No, that's the R and D wing," she said.

"Oh. Good. Have a nice day," John said.

He pushed through the crowd, for once glad to be a little on the short side. He could see security guards looking about suspiciously. He was pretty sure they weren't all shape-shifting mind reading monsters, but even a normal man could give him a lot of trouble. They were all armed with pistols and blocky yellow handled things that were probably stun-guns.

"…something something Secret Agent Man!" John sang quietly as he slipped behind a rotund man who had lost his suit jacket at some point, and was now sweating through a white dress shirt. "Something something, given you a number and taken away your name!"

Bright red fire trucks came roaring up to the gates, which had not yet been opened. Men in black and yellow slickers hopped out to yell abuse at the guards, waving at the smoke and threatening arrest. A pair of police cars pulled up as well, and the shouting got more fervent. The man guarding the nearest entrance to the parking garage took a few steps away to watch his bosses argue with the emergency personnel.

John did not think he would get a better chance. He'd have to cross thirty feet of open ground, and he couldn't do it at a sprint. He would just have to do his best to look casual. He limped from behind his human shield and tried to keep his shoulders square as he approached the entrance. The guard did notice him, but placidly watched his approach.

"I've left my medication in my desk," John said to him, doing his best to imitate and American accent. "Since the garage is not on fire, would it be alright if I go to my car? I've got another bottle in there."

"Yeah, hang on," the guard said. "I've got to call it in."

The guard pulled the radio from his belt and lifted it to his ear. John watched his own hands moving. His right seized the guard's wrist, and his left went for the holster. He found himself holding the startled man at gun point. He was glad his instincts were still working, as most of his brain was still trying to remember how the second verse of the song went. John wondered if the drugs affected his sense of right and wrong, as holding this man at gunpoint seemed a bit not good, but he was doing it anyway. He wondered if explaining himself would make the situation any better.

"I've just escaped being chained up in Roman's office, and I'm not going back," John said. "You don't seem like a bad person, so I won't shoot you unless you do something very annoying. Drop the radio. Turn around and walk into the garage."

The radio fell to the lawn. The guard's eyes darted to the crowd a few yards away. John's body blocked their view of the gun.

"Yelling would be annoying," John said.

They walked inside. It took John's eyes a few moments to adjust to the light, but the guard was too inexperienced to take advantage of that. John took the stolen keys from his pocket and pressed the lock button on the fob. He heard an answering beep. They were on the right floor at least.

"Keep walking," John insisted, when the guard tried to slow down and close the gap between them. He didn't really care if the man ran away at this point. John could see security cameras all over the garage. All of them turned to track his progress. It made him very nostalgic.

"What's wrong with your leg?" the guard asked.

"It's broken, obviously," John said, pleased that he had come very close to matching Sherlock's tone. Of course the guard wouldn't know that. He was from a different country after all, and if he subscribed to John's blog, he probably would have mentioned it by now; _I love your blog! You wouldn't shoot a fan, would you?_ Or something of that sort. He was about to recommend the blog, but a sudden sharp pain shooting from his heal to his knee stole the words from his lips.

"How'd you break it?" the guard asked.

"In the course of my escape," John said. He clicked the unlock button again and saw headlights flash. He nearly burst out laughing at his good luck. It wasn't quite a tank, but he doubted the gate would give him any trouble.

"Were you really chained to Roman's desk?" the guard asked.

"Yes," John snapped. His leg was definitely hurting now, and his face felt sweaty and tingly. He was pretty sure the drugs were wearing off and shock was setting in. "And I'm not sure who knew about it, but if I were you I would take the opportunity to fly to China and mail in my resignation, as Roman will probably have you skinned for a carpet for letting me escape."

"Don't you want to call the police?" the guard asked.

"I doubt they'd be of much help. Take off your belt. Leave all that gear and go," John ordered.

He didn't have high hopes that the pepper spray or the stun gun would do much to the creatures, but this way the guard couldn't zap him as he tried to get his suddenly very shaky legs into his soon-to-be-stolen car. The man obeyed and then scurried off when John waved him away with the gun.

John nearly fell on his face when he bent down to retrieve the belt. He came close to fainting as he hauled himself into the Humvee. He shut his eyes for a moment, after he had closed and locked the doors. _I can't just drive to the airport. Maybe I should find the consulate, but that could be too obvious. If I were Sherlock, where would I go? _ The morgue was the only answer that popped into his mind, and it did not seem a likely one. A shriek snapped him back to reality.

John started the car, thankful beyond words that it was an automatic transmission. He pulled out of the parking space, wincing as the movements of his left leg jarred the right. He saw two guards struggling against the boot of a Mercedes. The guard he'd just robbed of weapons was kicking and struggling feebly as another guard ripped chunks of flesh from his arm with impossibly large jaws.

John stomped on the gas. If he rammed them he'd kill the human guard, though the blood spraying from the injured man probably meant he was doomed anyway. John rolled his window down. Steering with one hand, he fired his stolen gun with the other.

The creature let go of the guard as the bullets struck, but it seemed more distracted than pained. It turned towards John and sauntered into the path of the Humvee. The injured guard slumped to the concrete floor of the garage.

The creature did not seem worried about the two tons of onrushing steel, and John was a struck with a vision of the awful thing crashing straight through the wind screen. He spun the wheel hard to the left and the tires squealed. The creature leapt.

The Humvee skidded and the bumper clipped a couple of parked cars before John got it back on track. He checked all his mirrors but couldn't see where the creature had gone. He rolled up his window as he followed the signs towards the exit. He didn't think the glass would keep him safe, but he just felt better without the air blowing in on the side of his neck.

A wooden arm was blocking the exit, but John didn't see any tire spikes, so he plowed right though. He found himself giggling a little, and he didn't think the giddiness was entirely due to the now waning drugs.

The gates had finally opened for the fire trucks and it looked like he had a clear path to the outside world. Something in the dashboard started beeping. For a moment he thought this monstrosity might have a car phone, but he finally picked out the blinking light that went with the beep. It was next to a button labeled "back up camera". With a sinking feeling, he pressed the button.

A screen in the console came to life. He could see part of the road behind him, but most of the camera was obstructed by something dark, which shifted as he bounced over a speed bump. He squinted a bit and realized the dark object was the same dark blue as the security guards' uniforms. The damned creature was clinging to the rear bumper.

"The hell with that," John growled, throwing the Humvee into reverse.

The camera cleared and he looked over his shoulder just in time to see the creature's fist crash through the back window. The Humvee's tires hit the curb and the huge car bounced up onto the lawn. John put it in drive again and turned the wheel sharply. The creature and half the back window tumbled away. The remaining glass was streaked with black fluid.

John didn't feel at all guilty about tearing up a doughnut on the lawn of Richard Roman Enterprises, but he did feel a bit bad when the expense-reports-woman broke away from the crowd of evacuees, shouting "that's my car!" as she chased after him. He got himself pointed in the right direction and floored it. A few of the police and firemen had turned to watch him, but none of them were fool enough to get between him and the open gate. He was sure they'd be following.

He pressed a few more buttons on the dashboard, hoping to bring up a GPS or mapping system. Instead the radio came on. John tired to think it was lucky instead of ominous when the song that had been stuck in his head the last half hour came on.

_"... the odds are you won't live to see tomorrow!"_

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 -0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Every fairy tale needs a good old fashion villain…

Sherlock found his mind wandering back to Moriarty's mocking words. He rather desperately wanted this to be about something old fashioned, like a wicked stepmother or a mad king. A normal psychopath would be greatly preferable to these ancient, barely named monsters. Sherlock's eyes moved to the headless body on the couch, a perfect match to John, at least on the outside. The black ooze still bubbling out of the neck gave away the game.

Sam Winchester let out a frustrated huff, and Sherlock winced slightly as the man's sour breath washed over his face. He refrained from commenting on it, mostly because it would be foolish to antagonize the man as he splinted Sherlock's broken arm, but also because it was pointlessly rude to criticize him for something that was entirely Sherlock's fault. He had not worked breaks for dental hygiene into his prisoner exchange plan.

As Sam settled Sherlock's arm, bound in duct tape and _Home & Garden_ magazines, into a sling made from torn bed-sheets, Sherlock's mind catalogued and deduced. Sam had an obvious motive, and maybe even a right, to inflict Sherlock with a great deal of pain, but was careful not to as he treated his injuries.

"You are fairly skilled at this," Sherlock said. He had observed all he could from the outside. To plan further he needed more data on what was happening inside Sam's head. Sherlock expected Sam to lecture him on his sins, on how Sam and his brother constantly helped the wounded in their quest against evil. Sherlock expected him to react to the complement at least.

Sam just grunted.

"Given the disproportionate strength these Leviathan posses, it seems broken bones would be common occurrence when dispatching them," Sherlock said.

"If a Leviathan's close enough to break your bones, you're already screwed," Sam said. "When are your people going to call about Dean?"

"They will not try to contact me again through this phone," Sherlock said. "The message I sent was in code and will pass through multiple relays. Since the phone was given to me by Roman, it is obviously monitored. I will have to acquire a new one before I can get a response."

"We'll need to switch out cars then, too," Sam said, catching Sherlock under his undamaged arm and pulling him to his feet.

Sam vanished into the kitchen for a moment and returned with a large pot. He used the lid to push the Leviathan's head inside and duct taped it closed. He took it and the scimitar out to the car.

"A trophy?" Sherlock asked, following behind.

Sam shot him a look that said, in no uncertain terms, 'you are a moron'. Sherlock found he did not like being on the receiving end of it.

"If your leave the head by the body, it will reattach and the Leviathan will get up again," Sam said.

Sherlock wanted to say that such a thing was physically impossible, but then the pot rattled. His mind went blank for a moment.

"The police have found decapitated bodies you've left behind, with the heads in close proximity," Sherlock said.

Sam scowled. "We don't usually leave a mess like that. Where was this?"

"Tacoma, three years ago," Sherlock said.

"Oh," Sam said. "That wasn't us. It was probably vampires."

"Vampires decapitate their victims?" Sherlock asked.

"No. Some other Hunters decapitated the vampires, and didn't salt and burn the bodies like they should have," Sam said.

From Winchester's expression, he was telling the truth; showing both annoyance and frustration at an unknown party's incompetence. Sherlock wanted him to lie, to say there were only Leviathans and no other shape-shifters, and that vampires were just a joke, to see if he still had his attention.

"Ghosts are real, too," Sam added, twisting the metaphorical knife.

Normally Sherlock would love this kind of challenge; new data that would turn the world as he knew it on its head. He wouldn't be bored for months at least, now that he had an entire hidden society and dozens of unknown species to study, process, and categorize. But this new world worked by its own incomprehensible logic; binding symbols, immortal monsters, horrors and miracles distributed at random. The ability to identify 40 unique types of cigarette ash would do him little good here.

He and John had worked a case just a month ago, where a suspect and three corroborating witnesses had all sworn that the suspect was not at a crime scene where he had been caught on camera. None of them showed any signs of dishonesty, but Sherlock and the forensic experts found no sign of tampering with camera. The man's trial was due to start in another week. Could there be that many shape-shifters?

Even if mythical monsters were not involved, Sam Winchester as a human being did not make sense. The man was helping his acknowledged enemy rescue a stranger instead of his brother, based on laughable evidence and Sherlock's less than honorable word. Winchester was not gullible or stupid. Why would he try to save John? The next half hour gave Sherlock even more conflicting data on his new ally.

Sam drove them to a nearby shopping center, and Sherlock watched from the far side of the parking structure as Sam robbed a couple of their smart phones and cash. Sherlock could not see the victims' faces, but when a towering man with a sword demands your valuables, only a few expressions are likely. Their reactions were irrelevant compared to Sam's anyway. His face was pitiless as he threatened them, but full of guilt after he sent them scurrying away.

A few miles later, in a shopping center almost identical to the first, they ditched Sherlock's rental car and Sam hot-wired a rusty pickup truck. He left Sherlock in the idling vehicle as he hurried into a supermarket. He returned with a dozen bottles of EZclean, a bag of rock-salt, a package of water balloons, a handful of energy bars, and two cups of coffee. He tore the wrapper off of one of the bars and tucked it into Sherlock's sling when he made no move to take it with his working hand. Sam finished his own bar in two bites as he sped out of the parking lot.

"Any word from your people yet?" Sam asked, sipping his scalding hot coffee.

Sherlock had texted them again from the stolen phones, and he suspected Mycroft was now tracking them, but none of his brothers' people had responded directly. While Sam was in the store, Sherlock had begun to search for signs of John, and found a very informative news clip.

The footage showed a Humvee turning circles on the lawn of Richard Roman Enterprises' corporate office. The oversized SUV then sped out through the gate, passing numerous emergency vehicles as Roman's office burned in the background.

Sherlock showed the clip to Sam as they paused at a red light. Sherlock could only devote part of his attention to John's predicament as they drove, since he had to make sure Sam Winchester did not take an imaginary off-ramp and drive them off a real cliff. The man might also simply pass out at the wheel, given the strain his body was under.

"I think I like your friend," Sam said. "Where's he going? Do you have a fall back point?"

"No. And even if we did, John would not go there. The Leviathan's had no trouble reading his thoughts," Sherlock said. "But I know John well enough to deduce his escape route. Keep heading north. I will tell you when to turn."

"Your friend can't 'delete' stuff?" Sam asked.

"No. John has neither the desire nor the focus required to learn. You have an unpleasant memory, something you wish to remove from your mind," Sherlock stated.

"More like someone," Sam said.

"The Devil you mentioned to the Leviathan," Sherlock said.

Sherlock stared at the side of the larger man's face. Sam swallowed. When the Leviathan had copied Sam's form, it apparently experienced the same mental disorder that afflicted Sam. _If Leviathans are real, why not the Devil too?_ Sherlock tried to keep from laughing hysterically. _Perhaps I should not have deleted all the bible classes from primary school._

"Not the actual Devil," Sam began. "It's a copy of him. The real one was…bothering me… for a while and he left a copy of himself, like a scar. I had a barrier that kept him out of the way, but that's gone, now. He can't do anything real, but he can mess with what I see, hear, and feel. I used to be able to sort of shock myself loose from the hallucinations-"

"By causing yourself intense pain," Sherlock finished for him.

"Yeah. That doesn't work anymore," Sam said.

"Where is the original Devil?" Sherlock asked.

"Back where he belongs," Sam said. "In Hell."

"Hell? Can you elaborate on that?" Sherlock asked.

Sam flinched and jerked his head back, as if something had touched him. His shoulders hunched and he leaned towards the door, away from the unseen thing whispering in his right ear.

"No," Sam said through clenched teeth. "I can't."

Sherlock frequently dealt with mentally ill people who 'heard voices'. Many of those who gathered information for him in London, as part of his homeless network, were delusional, but never before had he found himself looking for the invisible tormentor.

"You said 'back', implying he was elsewhere before?" Sherlock said.

Sam spared him a glance. "Did you somehow not notice all the terrible, apocalyptically bad things that were happening three years ago; town's vanishing, plagues, ritual murders, spontaneous cannibalism?"

"Three years ago? No. I was busy," Sherlock said.

"Busy?" Sam asked.

"I was destroying an international crime syndicate, after faking my death," Sherlock said. "I did not have spare time to spend worrying about unsubstantiated ravings from the U.S. bible-belt."

"Why'd you fake your death?" Sam asked.

"The entire incident is documented online," Sherlock said dismissively.

"I can't look it up while I'm driving," Sam said. "That would be illegal."

Sherlock snorted. "My nemesis held John and two others at gun point, and insisted I jump off a building."

"And?"

"I jumped off a building."

"Can you elaborate on that?" Sam asked.

"No," Sherlock said, smirking faintly.

"But you jumped to save your friends," Sam said, as if this detail was extremely important.

"I did, though John was less than pleased that I waited over a year before informing him of my survival," Sherlock said.

Sam's eyebrows shot up, but he did not comment on it further.

They spent the next two hours talking as Sam drove. What the younger Winchester knew about Leviathans was imparted in less than fifteen, and most of that was a convoluted story about a mad angel, the Winchesters' dead mentor, and a conspiracy theorist who thought the March of Dimes was a greater threat. Sherlock prompted Sam with questions about other types of creatures, to keep him awake and for his own edification incase Sam did not survive the coming confrontation.

They also filled the water balloons with EZclean, a job that required two hands, one of which was provided by Sam between gearshifts. Sherlock was worried they might have bonded.

Sherlock was slightly better at processing 'feelings' than he had been when he and John first met. He recognized guilt now, and did not simply dismiss it, or delete the nearest links to remove it from his mind. He would still trade Sam Winchester's life for John's. He was annoyed that Winchester's willingness to do the same did not reduce the unpleasant feeling in the slightest.

_Caring is not an advantage_, he thought. _For me, at least. It does seem to work in John's favor though_. He looked over at the monster hunter. The man did genuinely care about John, though they had never met. He thought John would like Sam, if they ever did.

Sherlock received a short message from one of Mycroft's agents, informing him that Dean had escaped from the shed, and that they were searching for him. He decided not to mention that to Sam, as it would be a less than positive distraction. They also forwarded him a few images from traffic cameras, confirming that John was heading in the direction Sherlock had predicted. Another half hour on the road brought a quarry in sight.

"Here," Sherlock said. "This off ramp."

"Why?" Sam asked, though he made the turn.

"Take the first left. John's vehicle would be very low on fuel by this point, even if it had a full tank when he stole it. John would try to lead the Leviathan's away from civilians if he thought he was being followed, and even in his inebriated condition he could not fail to notice a pursuing force of this size," Sherlock said as they turned down a dirt road, bouncing over deep ruts as the sheer walls of a manmade canyon rose up around them.

"How many cars?" Sam asked. "I can only pick out three sets of recent tracks."

"John was in the lead. Four other cars followed," Sherlock said.

The quarry looked abandoned, at least by work crews. On the far side, a small water fall had formed, though whether it fed a lake or river was unclear. The other sided of the quarry was concealed by mounds of debris. Sherlock had not seen the water on the satellite map, but some of those maps used pictures that were years out of date.

The road ended at the bottom of the quarry and Sam picked his own route through the rubble. They nearly struck a parked police car coming around one of the mounds. Sam slammed on the breaks and Sherlock hissed as the seatbelt jarred his injured arm. Three other cars and battered Humvee were parked beyond police car.

Sam turned the truck so it was pointed back toward the road and parked it. They got out carefully rather than quietly, since their approach on the only road in had to have been noticed. Over the pops and clinks of the cooling engine, Sherlock could hear rocks tumbling and sliding, but he could not detect a pattern in the sounds that would indicate footsteps.

A barely audible shuffling sound drew their attention to a Honda parked by the Humvee. Sam unscrewed the cap from one of the bottles and shoved it into Sherlock's working hand. Sam raised the sword and crept toward the Honda, his boots nearly silent despite the unstable stones.

"Sherlock!" a voice hissed urgently.

Sherlock turned and saw two familiar hands sticking up over the hood of the Humvee. A graying blond crown appeared, followed by familiar blue eyes, and an exhausted scowl.

"You certainly took you time," John said, shuffling out of behind the stolen car. "I lead them on a chase through the quarry and circled back here. They'll figure it out any minute though. Let's go!"

Sam had paused to watch their exchange. John saw him and gave a start.

"Sherlock, isn't he one of the Winchesters?" John asked, in the tone he always used when he thought Sherlock had done something monumentally dangerous without realizing it.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "And you are not John."

The Leviathan grinned. "Technically I am a bit, though there wasn't a lot to share around. I barely got an arm to myself. I'm glad you've invested in larger friends."

Sam glared at the creature and started toward it with his sword raised. He froze before Sherlock had to call out a warning. Another John stepped from behind the Honda. A third came around the rear of the Humvee. A fourth slid down the mound of rubble behind Sherlock, getting between him and the truck.

"None of them are John either," Sherlock said.

Sam huffed. "No shit, Holmes."


End file.
